Seven Psychopaths: Reaching A Higher Understanding
by Mythyra Mystic
Summary: There is a certain level of despair that a person will sink to before leveling out. It's a level that makes someone so depressed that they will willingly take their own lives to avoid sinking further. But sometimes, sometimes, a person will sink so low that they slip into an unconscious state of awareness. He opened his eyes, and reached for the gun.


There is a certain level of despair that a person will sink to before leveling out. It's a level that makes someone so depressed that they will willingly take their own lives to avoid sinking further. Most people don't really even reach that level, those that do either end up dead or rising back out of that level again.

But sometimes, sometimes, a person will sink so low that they slip into an unconscious state of awareness. They end up not only beckoning death, but accepting it and welcoming it in. This was the state Marty Faranan ended up in when he received news that, after two weeks of comatose, his best friend- died in the hospital.

Now he gazed, unseeing, down at the blank notepad and black pen, the unopened bottle of Cherry Scotch (he'd given up the moment he'd seen Billy lying on the hospital bed) sitting unassuming at the edge of his coffee table, the unframed picture of Billy Bickle taking up the space between the bottle and the notepad, and the large black gun settled directly above his hand.

He closed his eyes.

_"Come with me, Billy." He stretched out his hand, begging his friend to take it._

_ Strangely the psychopath before him simply smiled kindly at him. "I told you Marty," He saw the Jack of Diamonds being pulled out from his jacket pocket. "This movie ends my way."_

_ He panicked. He turned and ran, scared away by the sight of the grin spreading across Billy's face. He took Charlie's car and sped off, tears blistering around his eyes. He barely saw the cop car speed past or the dirt road stretching out in front of him. The gunshot though, he heard that loud and clear._

At the time it had seemed perfectly reasonable to run from the possibility of his best friend dying in front of him. Now though, with Billy in god-knew-where without him, it all seemed fucking unbearable. He could have lived without Hans; at least he would have known that the man was with his wife. Without Billy by his side though, life was just too much. It was funny, the man had never seemed all that important to him until he'd been taken away. Now Marty just couldn't live without hearing his ridiculous ramblings, seeing his bright, sunny smile, feeling his reassuring touch, or smelling the exotic mix of strawberry shampoo and dog fur, that just said Billy.

He opened his eyes, and reached for the gun.

Zachariah walked up the steps of the white and blue house with a cheerful bounce in his step. He took the time to pause and readjust Connie and his machete and gun. Around him the peaceful night stretched out silently, no one walked about nor where there lights on in any of the houses save for the dim light that emitted from the house before him. Zachariah smiled to himself and knocked politely.

"Come in." The serial killing killer paused at the ragged, emotionless voice. He slowly turned the knob, pushed the door open… and caught his breath.

Marty, sat positioned on the edge of the cushioned sofa where they'd sat when Zachariah had told the writer his story, his hand hovering over a large, sinister black gun. It wasn't the impressive size of the gun that stopped the older man though; it was the complete emptiness that existed over all of the writer's form. Any of the nervous fascination that the young man had had before was gone, washed over with the look of utter helplessness. There wasn't even a spark in his dark brown eyes, just a hollow, empty look that chilled Zachariah to his very core.

The dark brown eyes looked up at him without really seeing.

"I knew you'd come." The empty voice said again. The hand moved to the left but Zachariah didn't worry. The Irish man before him was no threat; he was too broken, hopeless, and lost to be one.

The hand instead came down on a piece of paper, tucked away underneath an unopened bottle of Scotch. It pulled the paper out, sending the bottle tumbling to the carpeted floor.

Marty held the paper out to the other man, eyes still unfocused and empty.

Slowly, Zachariah moved forward, reached out, and took the small parchment. He glanced down at it… and did a double take. On the paper, written in the neat writing of the man before him was the name 'Maggie Delphi', followed by a phone number and an address. Underneath it all were the words "I still love you" that made the older man's heart leap with joy.

He looked down at Marty and beamed happily, tears shining over his eyes. "Thank you, oh god, thank you so much!" He said happily.

The previously alcoholic writer just stared at him.

"How can I thank you enough?"

Those words seemed to snap through to Marty. He actually blinked and looked at the man, really looked at him for the first time since Zachariah had gotten there. Then his eyes slid away to the black gun still lying on the table. A pair of light green eyes followed the longing gaze.

"It was Billy's." Marty said. "They gave me all three of them… As a way of apology I suspect."

"Oh," It wasn't really a question, but Marty nodded nonetheless.

"He- Shot him, right through the head- thought he was dead." The Irish man scoffed. "Bloody psychopath," It was strange how such a labeling word could be said so fondly. "Two bloody weeks- he lived- taunting me for two bloody weeks!"

Zachariah would never tell a soul but he was sure he saw tears slipping down Marty's cheeks.

"He died, you know. Last Saturday." The older man winced, remembering the phone call he'd made that day. "Just- just left me- all alone-"

The screen writer stopped lamenting and took a deep, shaky breath, exhaling loudly. He looked up at Zachariah with a glimmer of hope in his otherwise dull, lifeless eyes.

"I was so confused before." He stated softly. "Wasn't really sure about Heaven or Hell- now though…"

He looked pointedly down at the gun in the other man's hand. "I know- I know that no matter how crazy Billy was. He went to Heaven." The brown eyes flicked up at him again. "I want- no… I _need_ to be with him."

The older man swallowed back the lump that was forming. He looked down at the broken, lost man sitting on the couch and recognized the kind of man it was. He, himself, had been like that after Maggie had left, but at least he'd been able to believe that he might find her one day. He couldn't imagine how it felt to be unable to even believe that, to know- without a shadow of a doubt- that the one person you loved more than anything in the world was unable to return to you.

"_Please_-" Marty begged softly, certainty lining ever muscle in his body.

Zachariah looked from his gun back down to the man. He opened his mouth, his dry, cracked lips parting. "Alright…"

If a broken man could express joy then Marty would have expressed it with his shimmering eyes and slightly upturned lips. He took a breath and closed his eyes.

"I hope he's worth it." Zachariah said.

An actual smile broke across the Irish writer's face, spreading into a small grin. "He is, trust me, he is."

A resounding **BANG** echoed through the silent night.

Marty opened his eyes. A pair of brilliant, laughing blue eyes met his gaze and he very nearly fainted.

"Hey-heh! Took you long enough to get up here!" Billy Bickle teased him. "I thought you'd gotten sent the other way on accident or something!"

Marty launched himself into the long open arms. Rough, chapped lips crashed against a similar pair as he melted into his best friend's form. Those arms wrapped around him, pulling him in tighter, a hand threading into his hair, and his heart soared.

He pressed closer, as if he was trying to absorb the taller American into him, but large hands pushed him away just slightly.

"Hey, hey, hold your horses, Marty!" The brunette laughed, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Marty always loved it when they did that. Lowering his voice, Billy leaned in again, pressing his forehead against the Irishman's. "We've got all of eternity to do this, Marty." He told him softly. "You went and got yourself killed; now you're stuck with me forever."

The writer smiled, closing his eyes and listening to the thundering sound of their hearts. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Billy."

"Oh," Awe filled the brunette's voice. "Good!"

Behind them, settled on a wrought iron park bench Myra and Hans watched them with identical smile on their faces. Looking up at her husband, Myra smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder.

FADE OUT. END.

'_I know most authors put their disclaimers and everything at the beginning put honestly? I didn't want to ruin this story by talking about how I don't own any of these characters and everything else. My inspiration for this story is, of course, 'Seven Psychopaths' and the song 'The First Cut Is The Deepest' by P.P. Arnold. I don't really have anyone to thank for this story, so that'll just remain blank I guess. I would like someone to write more 'Seven Psychopaths' fanfiction because, let's face it, one story isn't going to cut it. I guess it's a little late to warn you of slash but, like I said before, I didn't want to ruin the story by talking a lot in the beginning. None of the characters belong to me, like I said before. So, I guess thanks for reading it and I would like it if you reviewed. Thanks for reading and so long and thanks for all the fish!_


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